The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [148]
Strange, Rod thought. But they couldn’t come directly to Lenin by the Admiral’s orders, and the boats wouldn’t provide any real protection when MacArthur exploded. What they had done was unnecessary caution since the torpedoes did not give off a large fraction of their energy in x-rays and neutrons, but it was understandable caution.
The timers twirled noiselessly to zero. Kutuzov watched grimly as another minute, and another, went past. “The torpedoes did not fire,” he said accusingly.
“No, sir.” Rod’s misery was complete. And now—
“Captain Mikhailov. You will please prepare main battery to fire on MacArthur.” Kutuzov turned his dark gaze to Rod. “I dislike this, Captain. Not so much as you. But I dislike it. Do you prefer to give order yourself? Captain Mikhailov, you permit?”
“Da, Admiral.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rod took a deep breath. A man ought to kill his own dog. “Shoot!”
Space battles are lovely to see. The ships approach like smooth black eggs, their drives radiating dazzling light. Scintillations in the black flanks record the explosions of torpedoes that have escaped destruction from the stabbing colors of the secondary lasers. The main batteries pour energy into each other’s Fields, and lines of green and ruby reflect interplanetary dust.
Gradually the Fields begin to glow. Dull red, brighter yellow, glaring green, as the Fields become charged with energy. The colored eggs are linked by red and green threads from the batteries, and the colors change.
Now three green threads linked Lenin and MacArthur. Nothing else happened. The battle cruiser did not move and made no attempt to fight back. Her Field began to glow red, shading to yellow where the beams converged amidships. When it became white it would overload and the energy stored in it would be released—inward and out. Kutuzov watched in growing puzzlement.
“Captain Mikhailov. Please take us back a klick.” The lines on the Admiral’s brow deepened as Lenin’s drive moved her gently away from MacArthur.
MacArthur shaded green with faintly bluish spots. The image receded on the screens. Hot spots vanished as the lasers spread slightly. A thousand kilometers away she glowed richly in the telescopes.
“Captain, are we at rest with respect to MacArthur?” Kutuzov asked.
“Da, Admiral.”
“She appears to move closer.”
“Da, Admiral. Her Field is expanding.”
“Expanding?” Kutuzov turned to Rod. “You have explanation?”
“No, sir.” He wanted nothing more than oblivion. Speaking was pain, awareness agony. But he tried to think. “The Brownies must have rebuilt the generator, sir. And they always improve anything they work on.”
“It seems pity to destroy it,” Kutuzov muttered. “Expanded like that, with that great radiating surface, MacArthur would be match for any vessel in Fleet...”
MacArthur’s Field was violet now, and huge. It filled the screens, and Kutuzov adjusted his to drop the magnification by a factor of ten. She was a great violet balloon tethered by green threads. They waited, fascinated, as ten minutes went by. Fifteen.
“No ship has ever survived that long in violet,” Kutuzov muttered. “Are you still convinced we deal only with animals, Captain Blaine?”
“The scientists are convinced, sir. They convinced me,” he added carefully. “I wish Dr. Horvath were here now.”
Kutuzov grunted as if struck in the belly. “That fool. Pacifist. He would not understand what he saw.” They watched in silence for another minute.
The intercom buzzed. “Admiral, there is a signal from the Mote embassy ship,” the communications officer announced.
Kutuzov scowled. “Captain Blaine. You will take that call.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Answer the call from the Moties. I will not speak to any alien directly.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Its face was any Motie’s face, but it sat uncomfortably erect, and Rod was not surprised when it announced, “I am Dr. Horvath’s Fyunch(click). I have distressing news for you, Captain Blaine. And by the way, we appreciate the warning you gave us—we don’t understand why you wish to destroy your ship, but if we had been alongside